Pooh Poo

My daughter was less than a month old when a new friend – well, she had the potential to become a friend but really we’d only jointly been at a few events and had managed to learn each other’s names and handbags. Anyway, she called to ask if I could watch her children for the day.

Now I’m as accommodating as they come, but I hardly knew this woman, I had no relationship with her little ones, and mostly, I just wasn’t up to it. I was recovering from 9 months of pregnancy, 32 hours of labor, and 19 days of no sleep. Plus, I had my hands full (literally) trying to breastfeed. To expect me to shower, dress AND babysit a couple of toddlers was pushing me WAY out of my energy zone.

I politely told her I wasn’t up to it, maybe another time.

Half an hour later she called back, begging. A good friend was in town just for the day and they needed a little “girl time” for lunch and a chat. She had apparently called every one she’d known since middle school and absolutely no one else could help her out (Can you say “GIANT RED FLAG”?). She assured me it would be quick and easy. She would feed them lunch before she brought them and would only be gone an hour – hour-and-a-half – tops.

My head was trying to formulate the words to politely decline when I heard, “Well…I guess so,” exit my lips.

Darn my people pleasing.

Twenty minutes later she showed up at the door, informed me she hadn’t had time to feed them or even pack lunch, but they would eat just about anything I would fix. Yeah? Lucky me! Ugh.

So I wrangled, fed, and cleaned up after two toddlers, while nursing one-handed (which may work for B-cup gals, but we DDs require two hands to accomplish this task without smothering our children.)

Once the lunch rush was behind us, my baby was asleep. I took her upstairs to put her on the bed. As I was descending the stairs a very few minutes later, I caught a glimpse of the 2-year-old turning a corner dressed like Winnie-the-Pooh. (Read: shirt, no pants.) Oh, bother. Seems he had dropped his diaper…somewhere.

I quickened my barefoot pace to catch up to him, when…

I STEPPED IN IT.

AND THEN I SAID IT.

Not only was he dressed like Pooh, he was dressed IN poo. Up his back, down his thighs, and now which, thanks to the ripaway diaper, decorated my floors as well.

Two diaper changes, three long hours, four attempts at carpet cleaning, and one temper tantrum later (mine), this woman, who before noon had the potential to be my friend, returned to collect her little angels without so much as an apology for being late, an offer to have my carpet cleaned, or even a “thank you” for my time.

I’d say I learned a valuable lesson from this experience, but since it has been YEARS and I am still whining about it, probably not.